Chapter 2

He was… impossibly handsome. No. No. No. That couldn’t be her first thought. This was the man who had ripped her life apart.

His voice, surprisingly gentle, jolted her out of her stunned paralysis. “You’re bleeding quite badly.” He crouched down beside her, his dark eyes fixed on the crimson stain spreading across her dress.

Tears welled in Claudine’s eyes again, this time a genuine mix of pain, disorientation, and a sudden, unwelcome flicker of… something she couldn’t quite identify. “I… I’m lost,” she stammered, the vulnerable act surprisingly easy in her current state. “Looking for my sister. I… I’ve been shot.”

His gaze ran over her flimsy dress, her disoriented appearance, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. He was about to speak when a persistent “Hello? Hello?” emanated from his pocket. He frowned, realizing he hadn’t ended his call.

“Just a second,” he murmured, pulling out a sleek phone. He spoke a few sharp, clipped words in a rushed English language she didn’t comprehend, then ended the call and turned back to her, genuine concern etched on his undeniably handsome face.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low and surprisingly soothing.

“Mia,” she lied instantly, the alias feeling strangely natural on her tongue.

“And your sister’s name?”

Claudine froze for a split second, caught off guard by the simple question. “Huh?”

“Your sister. What is her name?” he repeated, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Drey… Andre,” she stammered, hoping the quick correction sounded plausible. He still looked faintly puzzled but let it go.

He reached out a hand, his touch surprisingly warm and firm, and helped her to her feet. He surveyed her again, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on her exposed legs, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I should get one of my men to take you to a hospital.”

Panic flared in Claudine’s chest. A hospital was the last place she needed to be. “No! Please… I don’t trust anyone here.” Her mind raced, trying to salvage the situation. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He tried to reason with her, pointing out the obvious – she was injured and needed medical attention. But Claudine played up her fear and confusion, her voice trembling convincingly. Just then, her burner phone vibrated discreetly against her skin. Drey.

She pulled it out, her heart leaping into her throat. Wrong time, Drey, wrong fucking time! She glanced at the screen – a simple, questioning “Hey?”

As she looked down at the message, she felt the weight of the Crossbearer’s intense gaze on her. Taking a shaky breath, she looked back at him, forcing a weak, relieved smile. “Oh! It’s my sister. She’s… she’s safe. She just texted me.” She even showed him the screen with Drey’s name, silently thanking her quick thinking in using it earlier.

He nodded before running a nervous hand through his dark, impeccably styled hair, a gesture that somehow made him seem younger, less menacing. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not even safe out there. The cops will be swarming the place any minute. Look…” He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her face. “Come to my suite. At least I can get someone to take a proper look at that wound.”

Claudine froze, her mind reeling. This was it? This was how she got inside? She feigned a moment of reluctance, but his gaze, a potent mix of concern and something undeniably magnetic, convinced her.

“Can you walk?” he asked, gesturing down the long, opulent hallway. “My door’s at the end.”

She nodded, trying to appear weak but compliant, subtly adjusting the hem of her short dress. He noticed the small, almost involuntary movement.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes lingering on her bare legs for a fraction too long.

She nodded again, her gaze locked on his. Where were his guards? Up close, in the soft lighting of the hallway, he was even more captivating than the grainy photos she’d seen. Newly installed head of the American mafia. Only 28. His father’s ghost still hung heavy in the air, she’d heard. New York roots. But his face, right now, held a weariness, a vulnerability that chipped away at the image of the ruthless killer she’d built in her mind. She hated this man. She had to.

He gently took her hand, his touch surprisingly warm and steady, and helped her to walk. But her shaky legs betrayed her, and she stumbled, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips. He looked at her, a sign of annoyance crossing his ridiculously handsome features. He muttered something under his breath – she caught the words “bloody hell” again – then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he smoothly scooped her up into his arms, bridal style.

“Keep your eyes open,” he instructed, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his earlier irritation.

Claudine’s heart hammered against his chest, the proximity making her head spin. He was so close. The heavy gold cross chain, the object of their entire dangerous plan, glinted against the dark fabric of his shirt, inches from her grasp. Fuck.

He reached a heavy oak door, shifting her slightly to punch in a series of numbers. The door swung silently inward, revealing a lavishly decorated suite. He carried her inside, the door closing behind them with a soft click that felt strangely final. She wanted to be put down, to regain some semblance of control, but he ignored her silent plea, carrying her to a plush velvet couch and gently depositing her there.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes darting around the opulent space. Phone. Cross. That was all that mattered. She spotted a crystal decanter filled with amber scotch and a heavy glass on a nearby marble table. He liked his expensive liquor. Perfect.

As he turned his attention back to her, Claudine subtly reached into her small purse, her fingers closing around the cool metal of the pen. If she could just get him to take a sip…

He was already on his phone again, his thumbs flying across the screen. Then he turned back to her, his expression softening with a genuine concern that made her stomach clench with a confusing mix of guilt and resolve. “Let’s take a look at that shoulder.”

“Would you… would you like a drink?” she offered, her voice trembling slightly. “For the… the shock of everything.” She even managed a weak, hopefully convincing smile. “You’ve been through a lot tonight too.”

He looked at her, a fresh sign of something unreadable in his dark eyes. He didn’t answer immediately, just walked over to the scotch, the crystal clinking softly as he poured a generous amount into the heavy glass. He took a long swallow, his gaze never leaving hers. “Do you know who I am, baby girl?”

Claudine swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “They call you the Crossbearer,” she said, her voice a little stronger now, testing the waters. “Not just because of the… the gold chain. But… because of your… methods.” She shivered, feigning a fear she didn’t entirely have in this moment. Methods in terms of punishments and his sex preference was a little questionable.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent electrifying shiver down her spine despite herself. He poured another drink, the rich amber liquid swirling in the glass. As she reached for it, a sharp knock echoed at the suite door.

“Stay here,” he said, placing the untouched glass on a nearby stool. He went to answer it, his silhouette framed in the doorway.

Her chance. With trembling hands, Claudine quickly reached for the glass he’d just held, the scotch still swirling gently. She unscrewed the pen and, her heart hammering against her ribs, emptied the white powder into the amber liquid. Stirring it quickly with her finger, she offered a silent prayer that he would take another sip.

He closed the door and turned back, his hands full. A small, silver medical tray glinted in the soft light, holding antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a pair of small, sharp-looking scissors. And a brown paper bag that emanated the tantalizing aroma of takeout.

“My… uh… my associate brought these,” he said, placing them on the coffee table with a small smile. Associate? Guard, you mean, Claudine thought, a bitter taste rising in her mouth.

Claudine picked up the glass of drugged scotch and offered it to him, her hand shaking slightly. “Maybe… maybe you should have this first.” She offered a nervous smile, her eyes locked on his. He looked at the glass, then back at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. He reached for it… and then, unexpectedly, placed it on the stool behind him, untouched.

A cold wave of dread washed over Claudine, she was bad at controlling the situation of things. This was torture. She had no idea what this man was truly capable of. She needed to get out. Now.

He rolled up his sleeves, revealing a glimpse of a dark tattoo snaking around his forearm, and settled back on the couch, his gaze intent on her wound. She was locked in his focus.

10:10 PM

Claudine’s heart was doing the tango, a frantic rhythm against the deceptive calm of the suite. He was close. Too close. And every move he made sent a confusing mix of dread and… okay, fine, a little bit of something else… fluttering in her stomach.

He picked up a small, sharp pair of scissors. “This is really going to sting,” he announced, his voice low and surprisingly gentle.

Claudine swallowed, her gaze fixed on his hands. They were steady, surprisingly delicate for a man who probably had people “taken care of” for a living. Focus, Claudine. Mission, mission, mission, she chanted internally. But her brain was a rebellious teenager, drifting to thoughts of his dark hair, the way his lips curved when he spoke, the faint scent of expensive cologne that hinted at a life she couldn’t even imagine.

He looked up, catching her eye. A small, almost amused smile played on his lips. “Trying to distract yourself from the pain?”

Claudine flushed, her carefully constructed vulnerability cracking slightly. “Just… wondering if you’ve done this before,” she mumbled, cursing her own awkwardness.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her like a purring… panther. “Been shot? Surprisingly, no. Though I’ve seen it up close and personal.”

Liar, Claudine thought. Every instinct screamed that this man was intimately acquainted with violence. But she played along. “Really?”

He shrugged, his attention now focused on carefully cleaning the area around the bullet wound. “I prefer to be the one doing the… shooting, not the one being shot.”

They talked. Small talk, mostly. He asked about her (fake) sister. She spun more elaborate tales, her mind doing mental gymnastics to keep the lies straight. He said she was a “breath of fresh air” amidst the chaos, which was… flattering, and also mildly terrifying. He added that she reminded him of his late mother, which was just plain weird. Extra weird.

It was a dance, Claudine realized. A dangerous, seductive waltz of half-truths and carefully worded questions. He was feeling her out, she knew.

“How old are you, Mia?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Twenty-two,” she replied smoothly, adding two years to her actual age. It felt safer that way.

“Twenty-two” He nodded slowly. “We’re all just passing through, aren’t we? Ships in the night.”

Claudine didn’t know how to respond. It sounded almost… melancholy. And that didn’t compute with the image of the ruthless Crossbearer.

Finally, with a gentle tug, he extracted the bullet. Claudine gasped, the pain sharp and immediate. He worked quickly, efficiently, bandaging her shoulder with a practiced hand. He examined the removed bullet with a strange, almost… puzzled look.

“Weird,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. His eyes going over the bullet.

Claudine tensed, her every nerve on high alert. “What is it?”